


First Impressions

by truculentTruncheo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A character does die, Crack, F/F, and Jerome is a major weeb, it's connected to the Gotham Purge au but you don't have to read that first, rip Paul, someone had to make them lesbians at least like once okay, u_u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 07:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19883689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truculentTruncheo/pseuds/truculentTruncheo
Summary: Jersey crosses her arms for support behind her head and yawns, making a display of relaxation, entirely juxtaposing her position. “Duh yeah, you’re Brooke Wayne. And an idiot. Want me to introduce myself too?” She turns to the spectators. “Should we have brought nametags? I feel like maybe we should have brought nametags.”They laugh as though on cue, with an unrealistic zeal and hysteria.





	First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> hii!!! i've been so busy i hadn't had the chance to properly continue the Gotham Purge AU! so i thought i'd post a scene that had been just sitting there in my files all lonesome and the like! and, just to make clear, you don't have to read the other work to understand this one! thanks for checking my story out! ^u^ <3

  
  


Come the occasion that Brooke encounters Jersey Valeska in the flesh, her first impression is not that the woman is every inch the sanguine, vainglorious, insouciant child with a truck-load of knives and charisma to her name as the manifestations of her presence-- the bodies, the media, the havoc-- would claim, though all of this is true. It is not that Brooke is terrified, nor quaking with wrath, though both would grow in time. It is not even that the maddeningly enticing figure-- a paradox of glee and tsuris, someone who reflects her yet repels her, the suppurating mania glossed by stepford smile-- leaves her mind ravished with unignorable, pulsing confusion, though eventually that very sentiment would subsume the fate of Gotham. No, in fact, the first thing she takes note of, consciously, is that Winifred’s hands are softer, warmer than usual. The second thing being far less a comfort: that rousing her from her untimely slumber is not, pointedly, a dear and devoted friend, but a wily and wicked criminal. 

“Hullo? Anyone in there?” Knees compress her lungs from one side, plush carpet from the other. Fingers find their way to her eyelids, peeling them back. The omnipresent fire has dwindled to embers, casting ginger locks in a hellish red imitation of medusa. “You know, I kinda expected something a little more, uh, exciting.” Jersey’s freckle dusted nose scrunches as she puffs up her cheeks, taking on a low Texan drawl. This is wrong in too many ways to list. “Jay to mission control. Kchh, I repeat, Jay to mission control, come in.” 

Taking as many microseconds as allotted to compose the tattered and fogged recesses of a train of thought far off the tracks, Brooke strikes up with all the force she can muster, butting heads and reversing positions with the object of her extreme attention ( _ you mean ‘obsession,’ Miss Brooke _ ) of past months. 

What she has failed to anticipate, however, in the bleary interim, is that enclosing them on all fronts are a bout of merry hench people wielding circus garb and an assortment of firearms poised to kill. A few are ripping paper out of treasured books, others knocking antiques off shelves, some fencing with fire irons. Jersey leers from underneath her, true emotions otherwise unidentifiable. It dawns on Brooke that she has very little power here.

“Wooh, now  _ that,”  _ and she careens closer, breaths coming out erratically, slicing across skin,  _ “ _ was something, baby!” 

Brooke bites her tongue, parsing the circumstance in its entirety to the best of her fogged capabilities. As the picture stands, she has been cornered by a dangerous egomaniac-- and co-- she intentionally aggravated in order to distract from the unbiased genocide of Narrow denizens. The rube goldberg strategy she configured to battle said egomaniac was ultimately sabotaged by herself, per consequence of negligence to adequate sleep and sustenance, and the arrogant exile of her stalwart guardian, who was obviously right to question Brooke’s abilities, but at the very least, is presumably safe in the Alps, albeit likely beside herself with worry. With all this in mind, she has very little time to decide what the optimal move is. 

“Brooke Wayne.” Brooke declares this with the fortitude of one a thousand yards away-- tosses in a charming smirk to complement the farce, in contrast to the screaming horror of instinct rattling her bones. “At your service.” 

With her words, the room goes quiet; she is at the center of a vortex of predators, each eyeing her like a slab of bleeding meat. Each waiting with baited breath, each in preemptive awe of their sacrosanct ringleader. An unavoidable row of teeth glisten white with excitement, sucking up the attention like a leech. The show has begun, and it would seem they are the stars. 

Jersey crosses her arms for support behind her head and yawns, making a display of relaxation, entirely juxtaposing her position. “Duh yeah, you’re Brooke Wayne. And an idiot. Want me to introduce myself too?” She turns to the spectators. “Should we have brought nametags? I feel like maybe we should have brought nametags.” They laugh as though on cue, with an unrealistic zeal and hysteria. 

Brooke swallows. 

“No need, Miss Valeska. As host, it is my privilege to memorize the titles and backgrounds of each of my esteemed guests.” Thank the heavens for Winifred’s sturdy courtesy. God, she has no idea what she’s doing. She’s only once ever felt so small as she does now. “If you would all form a queue, we will commence with haste.” 

A moment of silence overcomes the crowd.

“The hell is a queue?” someone shouts. 

Jersey twists to address the noise with the mien of someone pulverizing a spider. “A line, Paul. A fucking line. Someone  _ shoot  _ him, I can’t even.” 

At that, Brooke’s paper card act crumbles to pieces. She knows without a doubt this termination order is sincere. No matter who, where, or why, she will not allow the death count to increase if she can help it. To hell with entertaining this absurd banter. With a steely and shaky determination that springs more rapidly than she can process, she leaps from the central mesa and into the fray, tackling Paul to the floor simultaneous to the shattering pop of a gun. 

“Run with me,” she screams into his ear, latching an arm under his wobbling shoulders. But he does not move, and Brooke’s valor fades to dread as she realizes he is not wobbling with dismay but with laughter. 

Somewhere in the periphery, Jersey gives the orders to separate them. Not to shoot the brat. But Brooke does not hear this. She cannot tear her attention away from the lunatic she is so desperately trying to save. “Paul. Paul, you will die. Run with me, please.” 

He shifts his head, looking right through her. His eyes are green. “Don’t you get it?” He stands, despite her efforts, and spreads his arms, a rictus grin splitting lips wide. “I’m all yours, gorgeous.” 

In this moment, the treachery of Jersey Valeska becomes tangible, becomes real. Brooke watches on helpless, restrained by faceless tormentors, disgusted as the woman pirouettes, wiggles her hips, and slashes frenziedly at a smiling, deluded subject. Again. And again. And again, cheers feeding her on. This is a  _ cult _ . This is  _ insanity _ . This is  _ happening _ . Actually happening. Brooke is no stranger to the evils of the world, yet they always manifest in new and crazy ways, each time eviscerating the cavities of her heart with sharpened claws. 

“Stop,” she moans. “Stop.” But it is too late. 

After an indiscernible gap of dissociative staring, absorbing every detail, cataloging Paul’s face, his suffering, his suffering because of  _ Brooke _ , Jersey’s hand, the sounds and smells, it ends. Valeska spins, marches towards her. Lifts her chin with the apex of the blade. 

“Cheer up, kid.” In her gaze is something new. Something like acknowledgement. “This is a pretty damn momentous occasion. After all--” She smears, with the same soft and warm hands from before, a wetness, a hotness-- his blood, his blood,  _ his blood _ \-- around Brooke’s mouth, painting a smile where there is none. Where there may never be again. 

“--you finally got senpai to notice you.” 


End file.
